


we're both alone, without each other

by distortopia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Heavy Angst, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Finale, apparently I am the most masochistic person to live, because this is not a fix-it fic, it's a what-if-one-of-them-dies-and-the-other-survives fic, this is a wreck-it-even-worse fic, why the hell did I do this to myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-20 23:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4806611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distortopia/pseuds/distortopia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in the aftermath of the fall, the two worst possible worlds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moriarties](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moriarties/gifts).



            The red string of fate. At the moment, teeth chattering and wounds stinging mercilessly at the assault of salt water, Will couldn’t remember where he’d read about it, or who had mentioned it: the idea of clueless, childish gods, tying red chords around the ankles of souls meant to meet, meant to be.

            There was a red trail of blinding blood, staining the sand, right next to his fingers. The cold of the ocean had infiltrated his bones, and he could still feel his throat burning, the taste of salt in his mouth. Moving felt like torture. He must’ve broken _something._

            If this was death, he wanted his money back. The fall, traitorous with its appel du vide, had not killed him, and his eyes roam the rocky shore for Hannibal, since there was no possible way Will could’ve gotten here otherwise. If someone could remain conscious after plummeting from such a height, if someone could swim and drag another body with him after getting shot, that someone could only be Hannibal.

            He does not know if he feels jilted, disappointed, relieved or happy. Something inside of him, something that had been steadily breaking ever since Hannibal had changed the course of his life, felt shattered. The sensation was one of... futility, like a child uselessly tugging on the chord of a music box, again and again, even though its batteries were long dead.

            So he lets the sudden hunger for living fill him, deeply inhales the humid air into newborn lungs. The night is at its peak, just before the tendrils of morning seep into the horizon. He couldn’t see Hannibal anywhere, despite the bright and silver light of the moon. Where could he have gone?

            ”Hannibal!”, he cries out, voice painful and rough.

            He waits; shivers coarse through him. The silence sits undisturbed, only ever allowing the waves into its frigid sanctuary.

            Will tries again, shouts louder, but to no avail.

            There was no helping it. Cradling a broken arm, Will manages to get on his side, and after stars of pain explode into his vision, to rise on his feet. He nearly falls back, but manages to steady himself in time. The red trail of blood is shining ominously, and Will stumbles slowly next to it, stopping every few steps for gasps of breath.

            Where could Hannibal have gone?

            He passes a large, jagged rock, piercing the sand almost cruelly. At his feet, the blood stutters to a stop, turning into small pools, droplets, and then there’s Hannibal, lying on his back, outstretched arm buried in darkly-stained sand.

            Will remains still for a few seconds, measuring time in the sound of waves crashing into the shore. Pain blossoms distantly, when he falls to his knees next to Hannibal’s atrociously unmoving form, and his teeth start rattling inside his skull again, as if his body has been submerged into a second block of icy water.

            Hannibal’s eyes were open and gazing fixedly, emptily, at the sky. His lips were frozen into a smile unlike any other smile Will had seen; it was self-deprecating, amused, content, peaceful, sad and superior. His hair was still damp; his hand was loosely clutching his bloody side. Will does not need to listen to his breath, or to feel for his pulse, to shake him or to scream at him, to know he’s dead.

            But he leans down, and listens for Hannibal’s breath. He reaches out shaking fingers to touch the clammy, cold skin of Hannibal’s throat. He parts Hannibal’s lips and starts pumping air into silent lungs; after a short eternity, he simply breathes; then fragmented, brutal, corosive sobs explode into his mouth and drip inside Hannibal’s cold one. Will tastes blood, but he also tastes Hannibal, and that does it.

He lets go, possessed by spasms and tremors, and his entire being quakes and rattles ferociously, as if his heart is beating faster and faster, turning into a volcano. Growing bigger and bigger, about to burst and shatter his body into bloody pieces, covering Hannibal with the soft shroud of brain and ribs and insides.

            Will brings his knees to his mouth and lets the earthquake demolish every bone inside him. He does not feel. He exists, as a bundle of nerves aching at every end. Tears are staining the insides of his eyesockets, dripping into the empty arrena of his skull, filling it to the brim. The sun is steadily rising from the dark depths of the ocean, anchoring shadows onto Hannibal’s still features.

            That morning, Jack finds a man lying next to Hannibal Lecter, at the end of a red string of blood, streched across the shore of the Atlantic. He finds him with his eyes closed, head resting on Hannibal’s frozen chest, clutching at a lifeless body. He does not find Will Graham, conversing with the dead through chattering teeth.

            He does not find Will Graham at all.

*

            Will does not say a word, not when he’s being handled by the paramedics, not when Jack keeps pestering him with questions. His eyes look vacant, staring unseeingly at the spot Hannibal used to be, before the eternal black body bag swallowed him whole.

*

            Alana Bloom and Margot Verger return. The news of Hannibal Lecter’s death is everywhere, on screens and newspapers and lips. Drowned, they said. His eternal nemesis, Will Graham, had taken on the monster, and in their last, epic struggle, they had both fell into the open mouth of the sea; Will Graham had won. Will Graham was a hero, they said.

            Will Graham was nowhere to be found, Freddie Lounds concluded with a frown, after weeks of futile searching.

*

            Bedelia du Maurier wakes up to the face of Will Graham, but to Hannibal Lecter’s smile. Another pair of eyes, nestled behind blue ones, follow her shaky movements, still addled by the cocktail of drugs he had pumped her full with. Hannibal’s sharp canines glint from behind Will Graham’s lips.

            Pain radiates from the place a leg used to be, distant, muted. She breathes heavily, taking in the sight of the lavishing table.

            ”It’s good to see you again, Bedelia”, Hannibal tells her, sincere and terrifying, his words coming out of Will’s lips so naturally, rafined and polished as ever.

            She marvels at her own idiocy, at her own foolish hope, at her disappointment. Hannibal Lecter could never be dead; he had more than agency in the world, now.

            ”Could you excuse me for a moment? I’ve brought your favourite wine”, her host says while rising from the table, with a corteous smile and an apologetic nod.

            He disappears into the kitchen with graceful movements; the stride of a predator. Bedelia hides the oyster fork, and notices the third chair, and feels flooded by the sense of pity that has always made her so eager to crush, to crush relentlessly.

            When she does manage to bury the small fork in Will’s thigh, viciously, she has no idea of who she’s hurting. She doesn’t know who is eating her, she’s still not sure who slits her throat, because the reality is this: Will Graham is alone in a world where Hannibal Lecter is dead.

            But the reality is also this: Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter have become two names for one existence, and they relish at the taste of Bedelia’s flesh, and they relish at the sight of her blood spilling; they relish, they relish together, again and again.  


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal had angled their bodies in such a way that they would take less of the impact, upon hitting the water; yet, surrounded by the inky darkness of the ocean’s underbelly, he can feel Will’s arms going slack, fists unfolding and slipping away. They lose contact, and Hannibal’s mind becomes driven by a singular purpose, with terrifying, animalistic clarity. When he comes up for air, the waves nearly overpower him; after a few seconds, his eyes adjust, and he sees that he is alone.

He goes back with a sharp inhale, and the sensation of his chest turning into stone grows and grows, as seconds tick by and he cannot glimpse Will. Finally, the image of Will encased into the blue tint of water, drifting peacefully to the depths, makes his blood go cold in a way the ocean hadn’t managed to. His side hurts immensely, and he can see that he’s losing blood, but he still encircles Will’s waist and drags him upwards with all his strength.

The sound of an engine finally meets his ears; Chiyoh, the deus ex machina of his past years, slows the boat down and almost blinds him with her flashlight. He nearly growls with impatience, when she finally leans over and helps him get Will out of the water. Afterwards, she drags him over the ridge as well. Hannibal coughs for a few seconds, then kneels next to Will’s lax body, hurriedly.

Chiyoh’s flashlight illuminates his face almost painfully. Will’s curls are plastered to his head, and his features are jarring in their peacefulness. Hannibal’s training kicks in; he starts to do compressions, pushing intertwined hands in the hollow of Will’s chest; nothing. He starts administering CPR, pushing bouts of air into Will’s lungs, again and again; nothing.

Hannibal simply _refuses_ , keeps going, but Will remains still, and Hannibal distantly thinks that he must not have saved his breath at all, on the way down; or that the water had filled his lungs and burned his throat and his nostrils eagerly, and much too quickly, because it smelled the eagerness on him.

He lets his hands hang uselessly. He feels lost, mind torn in every direction.

”Hannibal”, Chiyoh’s accented voice calls, quietly. ”We must go.”

He hears the pity behind her words, the _this is useless, he is dead, he’s gone, nothing can bring him back now._ Not the Red Dragon, not the promise of Hannibal’s capture, not the promise of a friend. Will Graham’s last act, intentionally or not, remained a failed attempt at murder, and at the same time, a successful one.

Hannibal does not speak, simply shakes his head. He knows she thinks they should throw him back into the ocean. Chiyoh, fortunately, understands, and begins steering the boat towards the shore. Hannibal finally starts feeling the sting of pain, the bullet lodged in his side. Uncaringly, he sits down, and drags Will to him, maneuvring him between his legs. He lets Will’s head gingerly rest into his lap. It is dark, and cold; the waves are rocking the boat, and Hannibal finds the motion almost soothing.

He leans over Will, gazing at closed eyelids, and cards his fingers through Will’s wet curls, slowly, as if not to wake him up. His thumb ghosts over the wound in Will’s cheek; his fingertips trace the line of his jaw.

Death... had never jarred him so. For the second time in his life, death had rebelled; Hannibal had gotten used to orchestrating the fine intricacies of death, had taken a liking to acting as its handler. He elevated death through his killing, and humanity along with it.

This time, death had stolen from him. On the chess board of the world, his game with Death had been unrelenting, and he had so many pieces at his side, won fair and square; but Death, striking swiftly, had seized his queen (beautiful, lively Mischa) a long time ago. Hannibal had let his king be cornered before, when he’d embedded a butterfly knife into Will and opened him up; but this was not checkmate. This was defeat.

Between the shivers he cannot suppress, he feels his eyes burning. A warm, salty tear mingles with the cold, salty ocean water clinging to Will’s hair, and another catches on his eyelashes, glinting in the moonlight.

”Remarkable boy...”, he whispers.

*

Chiyoh does not say anything when Hannibal carries Will into the small cottage, hidden from view. He had bought this place for Will; the fates were cruel, ironic creatures. It was in close proximity to a small golf, where Will could have brought Abigail to fish.

He lays Will on the bed, silently, as gently as possible.

”Hannibal. You’re losing blood again,” his ghostly companion finally speaks, breaking the reverent silence.

So he lets her take out the bullet, he lets her bandage him, and the pain does not even touch the surface of his consciousness.

 _It’s beautiful._ The image of Will smiling, the weight of his head on Hannibal’s chest; he keeps replaying the memory, more real than anything else.

*

He sits next to Will’s unmoving body for minutes that feel like hours, and knows that he has to act quickly.

He refuses Chiyoh’s unspoken offer of help. She leaves the room, as if to give them privacy, when Hannibal takes Will off the bed and gently, gingerly, lays him on the empty kitchen table.

Hannibal takes a teacup from the cabinet. He holds it for a few seconds, feeling the weight of it against his palm, watching the light of morning reflect on its smooth surface. Suddenly, he throws it against the wall; it shatters loudly, almost with a scream of pain. He leans down and picks the largest shard, starts opening Will’s chest with it, uncaring of the scalpel on the counter.

When he finally releases Will’s heart from its ribcage, it is as red and blinding as he imagined it. Hannibal holds it for a while, commits every shadow and every vein to memory, then brings it to his lips. He eats it raw, uncooked, unseasoned, because Will does not need any sort of dressing; he is beautiful, he is much more than anything, and he does need the flimsy veneer of elevation the cattle does.

Will’s heart tastes like human weakness, like suffering, like love. Bit by bit, Hannibal imagines his own heart disappearing, steadily dripping into Will’s empty chest cavity, and he makes plans for every pound of Will’s flesh, for every last bit of Will’s being. He’ll devour every trace of Will, and thus Will would become part of him; their cells will mix, at their most fundamental base, and Will would become irreversibly his.

Hannibal swallows the last of Will’s heart and feels Will settle into his stomach, into his lungs and into his bones; he closes his eyes and finds Will inside his mind palace, towering over the skull on the floor, victorious. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually dreamed of this last scene. why not write it down and let my imagination agonize over it some more.

**Author's Note:**

> ...to be honest, I hope reading this hurt y'all as much it hurt me writing it.


End file.
